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"Bill. — Oh, I seen 'em often enough. If you 
wont say nothing I tell ye now. Remember, Marie, 
thats on the Q T yer Robert is dead stuck on the Jew 
girl. He waits for her every night when she comes 
home from work. He always goes down to the office 
to meet her, he does. 



FRONTISPIECE BY JUAN ARELLANO 






THE REHEARSAL 



A DRAMA IN ONE ACT 



BY 



JOSEPH HERBACH 



PHILADELPHIA 

JULIUS H. GREENSTONE 

1911 






£S*S 



Copyright 191 1 
Joseph Herbach 



Press oe 

The New era printing compant 

Lancaster Pa 



C CI. D 25578 



The untimely death of Solomon Gold- 
man has taken from this world a noble 
life and from me a faithful friend. To 
his memory I dedicate this book. 



/- 



Nathan. — Oh, that's it. If you don't shrink, why should she? 
Yes, why should she? Her father's love — his suffering — would of 
course be only the suffering of a Jew; what's that [bitterly'] if 
you, you, a Christian, the Christian to whom the world belongs, 
who can say to us, we will tolerate you, we will let you alone; 
why [laughs scornfully'] if he, the Christian, the lord, condescends 
to come down from his exalted position to marry one of ours, why 
should you, you the Jewess, not glory in the distinction? 



in 



CHARACTERS. 

Nathan Brodsky . .A radical 

Esther His sister 

Robert O'Donnell.Their friend 
John O'Donnell. . His father 

Marie Robert's sister 

Father Meekin. . . A priest 

Bill Dennen. ... .A neighbor of the O'Donnells. 

PLACE. 

O'Donnell's flat in New York. 

TIME. 

The present. An evening. 



THE REHEARSAL. 



\_A large sitting room, plainly furnished; on the 
right is a window with a shade. The window is 
facing the window of the house next door and is 
built so that it can he raised at convenience; on the 
left to the extreme end is a door leading into the 
other apartments of the flat; to the front there is 
a combination bookcase and mirror } and above this 
a holy picture on the wall facing the room. There 
is a large door leading into the hall, outside of 
which is a hall light and steps can be seen leading 
to the floor above. On one side of the door is a 
speaking tube, and a number of small pictures, on 
the other side a picture of the Crucifixion. 

Near the centre of the room facing the door is a 
small table with four chairs, and another small 
table with two chairs to one side. 

As the curtain rises the room remains unoccupied 
for as long a time as the singing lasts which can 
be heard from the room adjoining — a girl's voice 
— the song, " The Rosary." When the singing 
stops a voice next door is plainly heard; it is Bill, 

7 



8 The Rehearsal. 

the neighbor. Bill is not seen through the play, 
he is supposed to be a youngster of about sixteen.] 

Bill. — Hello there. Say, Tetrazzini, hey 
there. Are you deaf? Hello, Marie, he, he. 

Marie. — [Enters through the doorway of the 
adjoining room } walks up to the window and lifts 
it.'] Well, what do you want? 

Bill. — Well, I just want to tell ye that ye cer- 
tainly does sing that fine. 

Marie. — Well, I wanted to practice a bit 
before the rehearsal. Do you think, Bill, the 
concert is going to be great? 

Bill. — Well, I should snicker it will, did you 
hear what I'm going to do? 

Marie. — [Laughs.] You're the supe, ain't ye? 

Bill. — Supe — well, I guess nit. I'm one of 
the leadin' numbers of the menu. 

Marie. — You mean the program. 

Bill. — Well, what's the dif, anyway? I am 
gona make the hit of the night, so Sophie says, and 
the fellers around at Dennises say I am the best 
imitator they seen. 

Marie. — What are you gona do? Who are 
you gona take off, or are you gona recite " The 
boy stood on the burning deck " ? Hey, oh, 
you're great, you are. 



The Rehearsal. 9 

Bill. — Am I? That's what a fellow gets for 
givin' ye a glad hand, and telling ye how fine ye 
sung, but come to think of it, you're a bum singer. 

Marie. — Oh, we'll see when we get there. I 
know that you are fine all right, that you're a real 
elocutionist. 

Bill. — A what ? What's an elocutionist ? Oh, 
I know, one of them fellers at the circus, one of 
them fellers that turns himself inside out. I saw 
a dandy yesterday. Oh, my, but he was a corker. 

Marie. — You're talking about a contortionist; 
you get yer dates mixed, Bill. Wake up. 

Bill. — Me dates mixed, have I? Just watch 
Bill. Oh, ye can't speak the words yerself, and 
just because ye know a few ye stand there and 
blow about it. 

Marie. — Oh, you make me tired. You're too 
dumb to come out of the rain. 

Bill. — Take that back right now, ye hear, or I 
will jump over. 

Marie. — Oh, Bill, don't. [She screams and 
covers her face.] Oh, Bill, don't. You'll fall 
and break your neck; don't, Bill, ye hear. [Looks 
up] Oh. 

Bill. — [Laughs.] I had ye goin'. Ye thought 



io The Rehearsal. 

I'd jump, didn't ye ? Catch me elocutioning meself 
down four stories, my dovie ; not for mine. Gee, 
yer easy — yer easy, Marie Ann, yer a cinch. 

Marie. — [Recovering herself-] I didn't care, 
but I didn't want to attend a funeral after the 
concert. 

Bill. — Oh, that will be all right. Would ye 
sing at the grave? Don't; I want to rest in peace 
after I kick the bucket. 

Marie. — Oh, that will be all right, all right. 

Bill. — Yer only saying this because yer rattled; 
ye got nothing else to pipe about. By the way. 
when are ye coming over? The rehearsal is called 
for eight. All must be on time. It's gona be a 
treat. Father Meekin will be here, all the neigh- 
bors are most respectable — invited, you see. 

Marie. — I don't need yer invite. I am one of 
the principals — society 7 . 

Bill. — Oh, yes, yer gona sing here; just let me 
know when ye start and off I go ; I don't want to 
see yer suffering the pain. When are ye comin' 
over ? 

Marie. — Just as soon as the men have their 
eats, father and Robert. 

Bill. — The old man left the shop when I did, 
he'll be here soon. 



The Rehearsal. 1 1 

Marie. — I know he will, but Robert is always 
late and when he does come he's got such awful 
blues, he makes ye feel like crying when you look 
at him. 

Bill. — Don't ye know what ails him? 

Marie. — No, I don't. 

Bill. — Well, I does. 

Marie. — Ye do? Why don't ye tell me? 

Bill. — Catch me. Get this face of mine into 
a scrape ? I guess nit. Me for the morgue. 

Marie. — What do you mean ? 

Bill. — Nothing doing, Tetrazzini, don't you 
ask any questions. I say nothin'. Did ye hear? 

Marie. — Oh, well, I might have known that 
you don't know nothing. 

Bill. — Well, I do, just the same, but say, 
Marie, who are the ginks living up there, right on 
top of yer flat? What's the name of the Jews, you 
know, when you want to speak the name you 
sneeze? 

Marie. — Ye mean the Brodskys? 

Bill. — Yep [sneezes']. That's who. 

Marie. — Well, what about them; they're 
awfully nice people. 

Bill. — Oh, I don't know, they're Jews, ain't 
they? 



12 The Rehearsal. 

Marie. — Well, what's that? There are a lot 
of nice Jews. 

Bill. — Oh, I know there are, but that don't 
say that we have to hang up with 'em. Why don't 
they keep with their own? 

Marie. — Now, Bill, don't talk that way. The 
Brodskys are very good people. Nathan and 
Esther both come here and we visit them. When 
Robert was sick last winter didn't they come here 
and help us? Didn't they always act right to 
everybody? Didn't we come to them when we 
were in trouble ; didn't they do all they could when 
my mother died? Now, what's the use of laugh- 
ing at them; it's wrong, Bill, you shouldn't do it. 

Bill. — Well, I ain't laughing at the Japs; I 
only says to you that they're Jews; they're not 
our kind ; they does not go up to mass like we does ; 
what's the use hanging around with them ? Catch 
me doing it. I guess nit. 

Marie. — Why not, they are all right. You 
should hear that Nathan talk, he knows every- 
thing. Oh, he is so educated. Father likes to 
sit and talk to 'em. He, father says, is the best 
informed man he ever seen ; then this Esther, she is 
a real lady, an awfully goodhearted girl, so lovely 



The Rehearsal. 13 

she don't ever laugh at nobody. She is so good to 
me when others laugh at my breaks in speaking; 
she'll always correct me without making me feel 
the blood comin' to me mug. Oh, she is so nice, 
Billy. 

Bill. — Did ye say " nice Billy "? 

Marie. — No, I said she is nice. You nice? 
Catch me talking like this to Bill Dennen. I 
guess nit. Ye don't know the Brodskys ; that's 
why ye speak that way about 'em. 

Bill. — Oh, I seen 'em often enough. If ye 
won't say nothing I'll tell ye now. Remember, 
Marie, that on the Q T yer Robert is dead stuck 
on the Jew girl. He waits for her every night 
when she comes home from work. He always 
goes down to the office to meet her, he does. 

Marie. — [Very angry.'] Bill, don't ye dare 
to say this about our Bob. I'll tell him yer lying 
about 'im. Now don't you dare, you — miserable 
ninny; oh, don't. Never say this. Our Robert 
go out with a Jew girl ! You're crazy. I wish ye 
had jumped and broke your neck. Say this about 
our Bob ! I guess not. 

Bill. — Oh, ho, I thought she was so nice, is she, 
Miss O'Donnell? Well, and how do ye like to 



14 The Rehearsal. 

have someone call your sister-in-law — Mrs. Esther 
O'Donnell. Ha, ha. Well, I'll tell you that 
Bob is dippy over her; everybody in the shop ex- 
cept your old man and this — oh, what ye call him 
— oh, Nathan, that's him, know. Now ye know 
it too. 

Marie. — Now, Bill, don't tell such lies. I 
don't believe you. Not our Bob, no, no; it can't 
be. I got a good notion to tell him — he'll break 
every bone in your body. 

Bill. — Then he'll know it too, or at least he'll 
know that you know it. It's the truth, ye might as 
well face it like a man, Marie. 

Marie. — Oh, oh. [She pushes down the win- 
dow with a hard push, stands in thought, theri 
remarks :] So Robert, our good and big Robert, 
is in love with Esther, the Jew girl — oh, it's awful. 
[Her father enters, a man of about 55 years of 
age, of heavy build, attired in working clothes. 
He removes his coat and hat and throws them on a 
chair. ~\ 

Mr. O'Donnell. — Good evening, Marie. 

Marie. — Good evening, father. 

Mr. O'Donnell. — Supper ready? 

Marie. — Yes, but Bob ain't home yet. 



The Rehearsal. 15 

Mr. O'Donnell. — Well, it's nothing new. 
Lately every night, he is staying late, comes home 
with the blues. I wonder what's the matter with 
the boy? I shouldn't wonder he's got stuck on 
some woman. Marie, did you notice anything? 

Marie. — [Still in thought.'] I? Nothing, 
only that he is blue, don't eat right, can hear 'im 
walk around his room at night, don't go to church 
regular, that's all. 

Mr. O'Donnell.— That's all ! Well, I should 
think that is enough. I noticed it myself. I 
spoke to Father Meekin about it; he too noticed 
the change in Bob. He is no longer the same. 
He promised to stop in tonight on the way to 
Dennen's ; you know there is to be a rehearsal next 
door. I wish he'd give Bob a good talking to. 

Marie. — I hope he does. What time is it, 
father ? 

Mr. O'Donnell. — Very nearly quarter after 
seven. You'd better get supper ready. I'll eat 
mine first, then you and he can eat, so that when 
Father Meekin comes there will be some one to 
speak to him. 

Marie. — I had mine. Go in and have yours, 
all is ready. 



1 6 The Rehearsal. 

Mr. O'Donnell. — All right. [Exits into 
dining room.~\ 

Marie. — So father, too, noticed. I wonder if 
Billy ain't right after all, to come to think it over. 
I myself noticed how Bob's face would light up 
when she would come in. How glad he looks 
when ye talk about 'er. Gee, if that's true, there 
is gona be trouble. It'll kill father; it would be 
awful. [She is about to follow her father into the 
room when the hall door opens. Enters Robert, 
a fine looking young man y tally brown hair, plainly 
dressed, working clothes but clean. He pulls of 
his cap, walks to the chair on the right and throws 
himself into it. He does not notice Marie. He 
covers his face to hide a terrible emotion.~\ 

Marie. — Bob, what's the matter? 

Robert. — Oh, nothing. 

Marie. — Listen, Bob, there is something wrong 
with ye, tell yer kid sister, will ye? Ye know I 
can keep a secret. I won't pipe it to a soul. 
What happened? Father noticed that there is 
something gone bad with you. 

Robert. — He did? What did he say? 

Marie — Well, he is wonderin' what struck 
you. He can't make out why yer always got the 
grumps. He spoke to Father Meekin about it. 



The Rehearsal. 17 

Robert. — [Jumps up.~\ He did, did he? 
Well, what's that to Father Meekin? 

Marie. — Now, Bob, I am surprised. Ye 
know Father Meekin was always good to us ; since 
mother died, he was all to us. Why do you get 
excited and worked up and say such things; it's 
wrong, Bob. 

Robert. — No, no, Marie, don't mind me, I 
can't help it. I just got this sort of feeling and I 
can't get over it; oh, I'd like to go away — away 
into the world there where no one will know me. 

Marie. — Ye mustn't go on like that; ye been 
reading too much; that old Nathan upstairs has 
just got ye agoin' with these fine speeches. We 
mustn't go up there any more. Ye know, Bob, 
they're Jews, anyway. 

Robert. — [Catches her hands. ] Marie, what 
are you saying? Who has put such thoughts into 
your mind? Why don't you understand that we 
are all alike; there is no difference between Jew 
and Christian — we are all alike, at least we should 
be ; you hear, don't you ever let me hear you utter 
such words again. 

Marie. — [Releasing herself from Robert, 
kneels down on the floor, and to herself. ] Bill is 



1 8 The Rehearsal. 

right; he is gone on her. Oh, God, what will 
happen here. [She cries.] 

Robert. — [Consolingly.'] Now, Marie, what's 
the trouble? Since when are you getting so 
touchy? Cry, because I told you not to condemn 
the Brodskys ; why, I thought you were the best of 
friends. All I want you to do, is to be just. You 
surely don't think the less of them because they're 
Jews. Why, Marie, just think, you work with 
Jewish girls, you work for Jews, you buy at stores 
owned and kept by Jews; you strike with Jews 
and against Jews. Why, Marie dear, the world is 
becoming so intermingled that we really can no- 
longer tell the difference. 

Marie. — Yes, I know, but still there is a big 
difference. You wouldn't have me run around 
with Jewish men, would you, Bob ? 

Robert. — Now, really, Marie, I never gave 
this a thought about your going with anybody ; you 
are still a mere child; what has that to do with 
treating all alike, Jew and Christian? There are 
some very good Jews, some exceptional men, some 
very ideal women. [He stops to meditate; Marie 
watches him intensely.] Some whose — very life 
— oh, well, when I first met Nathan, I was crude, 



The Rehearsal. 19 

practically illiterate. Do you remember how 
patiently he taught me, accompanied mc to lec- 
tures? We read together, we spoke on all sub- 
jects; now I — who am I to say that I am better? 
No, no, my dear little sister, never. We must not 
exclude them from us. We are all equal, they are 
as good as we. 

Marie. — [To herself. .] They — he means Es- 
ther; I know he does. 

Robert. — Now, Marie, please don't cry; can't 
you see it is painful to your brother Bob; please 
don't. 

Marie. — [Dries her tears. .] Oh, very well, I 
won't cry any more. 

Robert. — Where is father? 

Marie. — At supper; go in and have yours. 

Robert. — I don't care for any tonight. 
[Walks up and down the room restlessly. ,] 

Marie. — You don't eat, don't sleep; you're 
always havin' the dumps, don't carry on. See 
how nice we've kept the home ; Robert, don't break 
it up now. It will be awfully hard on father. See, 
he's so stuck on you. 

Robert. — [Very much affected.~\ Marie, don't 
talk like that. I don't want to break up our little 
home. 



20 The Rehearsal. 

Marie. — [Embraces him.'] You don't really? 
Oh, that's good ; I'm tickled to death. Oh, that's 
good — good. [She jumps with joy and exits into 
the dining room. As she runs out she meets her 
father, who has by this time changed his clothes 
and is waiting the arrival of someone. 

Mr. O'Donnell. — Hello, Bob, since when are 
you home? Why don't you go in and have your 
supper? I expect to attend the rehearsal next 
door. Did you know that Marie is practicing the 
" Rosary"? They tell me she is doing fine. I 
want you to come along; now go ahead, get ready. 

Robert. — Not tonight. 

Mr. O'Donnell. — Why not? 

Robert. — Because I am not in the humor to 
meet anyone. 

Mr. O'Donnell. — Never mind that; you will 
soon get in the humor. Do as I say; don't be 
always hanging around the house like some crabbed 
old maid; get out among the boys and girls and 
enjoy yourself. When I was your age I raised the 
dust. 

Robert. — I will, but not tonight. I ask you to 
leave me out of this. 

Mr. O'Donnell. — Look here, I want to know 



The Rehearsal. 21 

what's going on. I don't like this sort of thing. 
What's up? If you're in trouble, tell me, don't be 
hiding it. [ The bell rings; Bob walks up to the 
speaking tube.] 

Robert. — Hello, who's this? Who? Father 
Meekin? [Surprised; pause.] Yes, yes, father is 
in, and so is Marie. Will you come up, Father? 
All right; step right up. [Wants to retire.] 

Mr. O'Donnell. — Stay. 

Robert. — I can't — I will not see him. 

Mr. O'Donnell. — Stay, I say. As long as 
you are under my roof, you will do as I say. A 
pretty state of affairs. So it has come to this, 
that you are afraid to face the man of God. I 
demand of you to stay. 

Robert. — Oh, very well, then, father. 

Mr. O'Donnell. — [Runs to the door, exits 
and presently returns accompanied by a priest about 
40 years of age, with pleasant face. When they 
enter, both Mr. O'Donnell and Bob bow very re- 
spectfully. Father shows signs of being exhausted 
walking the many stairs.] It has been too much 
walking these stairs. We are quite high up, aren't 
we? 

Father Meekin. — You are, but that is nothing 



22 The Rehearsal. 

unusual for me. It's the poor we visit, the rich 
visit us. [They laugh.] 

Mr. O'Donnell. — Hurry, Bob; get Father 
Meekin a chair. 

Father Meekin. — Only for a moment. I 
shall soon be rested. Well, Bob, how have you 
been? Didn't see you for a good long time, hey? 

Robert. — For some time. 

Father Meekin. — Tell me the reason. 

Robert — [Does not answer.'] 

Mr. O'Donnell. — Bob, Father Meekin is 
talking to you. 

Robert. — I know he is, I hear him. 

Father Meekin. — Well, now, Bob, come tell 
me what's the trouble. 

Robert. — [Shrugs his shoulders, walks away as 
though annoyed by the question.] 

Mr. O'Donnell. — Must I plead with you to 
tell the Father of your troubles, if you have any, or 
do you want me to become severe enough to tell 
you what I think of your conduct? 

Father Meekin. — Now, there's really no 
need of becoming angry. I am quite certain that 
Bob and I will get to some understanding. Per- 
haps it were better that we be left alone. I would 



The Rehearsal. 23 

suggest that you step in next door. Tell the 
Dennens I will be there directly. 

Mr. O'Donnell. — As you say, Father. I will 
call Marie. [Walks to the door of the adjoining 
room and calls — ] Marie, Marie. 

Marie. — Hello, what is it, father? 

Mr. O'Donnell. — Get ready, we are going 
next door. 

Marie. — All right. [Enters, on perceiving 
Father Meekin she bows.~\ Good evening, 
Father Meekin, good evening. [She and her 
father exit.] 

Father Meekin. — [Walks up to Robert, puts 
his hand on his shoulders."] Robert, my boy, I am 
not here as a spiritual advisor. I did not come 
here to reclaim you to the church, as I know that 
you are not away from it. I am here this time 
as a friend of the family. I have been your 
father's friend for many years and have helped to 
raise both you and your sister. Your father sus- 
pects that you are in trouble. I want to help you ; 
can I? 

Robert. — Neither you nor any other man can 
help me ; in fact I need no help, and don't want to 
be helped. 



24 The Rehearsal. 

Father Meekin. — It is then and then only 
that we need it most. As long as we feel helpless 
we enter into the consultation of others, stronger 
than we, and help will come, but when we become 
defiant, my boy, then we are helpless and weak 
indeed. 

Robert. — That's it. Always makes us feel 
that we are weak, that we must rely upon the 
moods and methods of the church — the Church 
which for centuries has kept people in subjection' 
and ignorance. 

Father Meekin. — Oh, so it's a case of losing 
confidence in your church. Well, if it's only this — . 

Robert. — You say, if it's only this? 

Father Meekin. — Yes, I say, if it's only this. 

Robert. — I can't understand; you surely don't 
mean that you don't consider this a great offense? 

Father Meekin. — It is a great offense, but 
not an irreparable one. 

Robert. — You will find that once a man begins 
to doubt he becomes strong in his new convictions. 

Father Meekin. — You are wrong; men do 
not become strong by doubt; they become and 
feel helpless. Why then, my dear boy, aren't you 
happy in your new belief? Why does it not bring 



The Rehearsal. 25 

you consolation ? What good is knowledge unless 
it brings joy — happiness? 

Robert — You don't know, you don't under- 
stand. It's not my doubt that makes me unhappy. 

Father Meekin. — What then? 

Robert. — Oh, I can't say, I won't say. Please, 
Father Meekin, do not press me for an answer. 
I am not capable of arguing. 

Father Meekin. — Is it because you can't 
answer, can't defend your position? Oh, you 
haven't learned sufficient of your new doctrine to 
be its exponent. You have only learned sufficient 
to condemn the faith of your fathers — the faith 
upon which you have been nourished, which should 
have made of you a God-trusting, law-abiding 
man. The church gave you all this and now you 
have just learned enough to condemn it. I will 
wait until you have learned enough to tell me — tell 
your parent, your neighbor and friend, why we 
should embrace your belief. 

Robert. — No, I have embraced no new belief 
and don't intend to, but I desire the right to take 
exception with you to our religion — not as a re- 
ligion — as an institution. I do not propose to con- 
done the fact that your influence is used against 



26 The Rehearsal, 

my class instead of being used for it. We are 
the poor, you should be our friend, our pro- 
tector. 

Father Meekin. — \Thoughtful.~\ 

Robert. — Can you deny that no matter how 
devout I would be, that my views on the progress- 
ive thought would practically put me outside the 
ranks of good Catholics? 

Father Meekin. — I do deny it. I say more, 
if you were more particular with facts you'd learn 
perhaps that I too take a deep interest in matters 
pertaining to the modern thought. 

Robert. — So does the average college professor, 
for the purpose of condemning and hindering its 
growth. It's not a question of study — it's a ques- 
tion of mingling with the down-trodden, to know 
them, to fight for them and with them. You can do 
it but you will not. 

Father Meekin. — Little do you know, my 
friend, what I would do. I would do more per- 
haps than you. I, in fact all who enter into the 
priesthood, do as much, and more. We truly 
offer our lives for what we believe right. I won- 
der whether you would sacrifice anything if called 
upon to do so ; would you even give up a mere per- 



The Rehearsal. 27 

sonal gratification ? In some ways I may not hold 
the same views as all others in my position do ; but 
you see I have the courage and conviction to d o, to 
take exception against existing conditions, but how 
about you ? Can you do the same, can you believe 
in the emancipation of the poor, in the struggle for 
true freedom, and yet be a true child of your faith? 
Can you, or can you not? 

Robert. — I don't know. 

Father Meekin. — Always in doubt. 

Robert. — No, not doubt, but justice — to my- 
self, to you, and to — 

Father Meekin. — To whom? 

Robert. — Oh, my God, I can't answer this 
question; not yet, not yet, Father. 

Father Meekin. — You are so agitated, I am 
so sorry for you, Robert. I want you to come 
to mass on Sunday and regain the spirit of conso- 
lation, your faith in God. 

Robert. — [Agitated but silent. The door 
opens; Nathan f a medium sized young man, very 
dark hair, Jewish type, enters- He draws back.] 

Nathan. — Pardon me, am I intruding? 

Robert.— [Relieved."] No, no, you are not; 
come in, Nathan, let me introduce you to Father 



28 The Rehearsal. 

Meekin from our church. Father Meekin, this 
is our neighbor, Mr. Brodsky. I suppose you 
heard my father speak of him, our shopmate, a 
friend of the family. 

Father Meekin. — Yes, I heard Mr. O'Don- 
nell speak of you, he calls you a Radical, but thinks 
much of you. 

Nathan. — \_Laugh\ng.~] I hope that you did 
not draw inference therefrom, that I am dangerous 
to the welfare of society. 

Father Meekin. — If we are to prejudge, I 
suppose we both draw from the same basis, namely, 
you will conclude that I, being a priest, must 
necessarily oppose the Radical, and you, being a 
Radical, I must naturally conclude that you are 
against the priesthood. 

Nathan. — I can speak for myself that I do not 
enter into opposition to your belief. I am a Jew 
and will not speak disparagingly against Chris- 
tianity. 

Father Meekin. — Would you about Judaism. 

Nathan. — No, I am ready to defend it. 

Father Meekin. — As a Jew, but as a Rad- 
ical? 

Nathan. — As a Radical I do not treat the 



The Rehearsal. 29 

subject, for the religious phase of life does not 
enter into it. 

Father Meekin. — It does not enter? Sir, 
don't you know that religion enters into every- 
thing, it is everything. The world cannot do with- 
out it. Religion is the basis of all morality; no 
morality — no civilization. 

Nathan. — No civilization — no morality. Men 
can be moral without religion. There are so many 
who profess religion without being moral. 

Father Meekin. — A paradox. But you will 
admit with me, regardless of whether you term it 
morality or religion, it was religion that taught 
man morality; the discarding of religion after the 
supposed attainment of morality does not discharge 
man from the debt he owes to it. 

Nathan. — Then religion as an inception of 
good should hold our reverence but should seek no 
further consideration. 

Father Meekin. — Didn't you say that you 
yourself are ready to defend your religion? 

Nathan. — I said, I am ready to defend Juda- 
ism, which embraces more than religion — it em- 
braces a race — a nation — a people. 

Father Meekin. — Can you separate all those 



30 The Rehearsal. 

from your religion? Can you deny that neither 
race, nation, or people would have survived were 
it not for your religion? 

Nathan. — As long as religion was the only tie, 
no. But since religious moods have undergone 
changes, since one sect of worshippers are antago- 
nistic to another, let him who does not subscribe to 
either, say the Christian or the Mohammedan, 
attack us, and our natural racial identity will at 
once predominate. 

Father Meekin. — All because as a whole you 
are of one religion. 

Nathan. — As yours is. 

Father Meekin. — Oh, no, not as ours is; the 
Roman Catholic Church recognizes no other sect. 

Nathan. — Neither does the orthodox Jew rec- 
ognize the Reformer; yet the Christian world does 
not enter into the compact; in its estimate a Jew 
is a Jew, just as to us, regardless of denominations, 
all are Christians. 

Father Meekin. — Tell me, was your rearing 
orthodox? 

Nathan. — Yes, sir. 

Father Meekin. — But you do not observe 
its laws? 



The Rehearsal. 3 1 

Nathan. — No; belonging to the younger gen- 
eration I naturally have progressed beyond it. 

Father Meekin. — Oh, yes, you too, just as 
our young friend over there, no longer deem the 
religion of your father as worthy. 

Nathan. — As for my young friend, I never dis- 
cuss religion with him, and as for myself I can 
answer why I do not. However, I am not 
anxious to enter into a discussion on the subject. I 
respect your opinion. 

Father Meekin. — Are you afraid to disclose 
your disbelief? Are you afraid to be convinced? 

Nathan. — No, I am not; but I know better 
than anyone else that it would be futile to attempt 
to convince a man like you of my belief. 

Father Meekin. — Perhaps I can convince you 
of the error of your ways. I do not desire to 
convert you to Christianity, but I will try to show 
you reasons why you should be what your father 
was. 

Nathan.— Your anxiety to hold me steadfast 
to my father's religion is only a new phase of the 
attempt to hinder independent thought. As long 
as all men were subject to some religious faith, re- 
ligions fought one another, but no sooner does a 



32 The Rehearsal. 

tendency appear for men of all religions to break 
from their particular faiths, then you become 
solicitous for the very faith you fought. Of 
course I understand your reasons ; for instance, you 
would prefer that Robert should associate with a 
devout Jew, because then Robert would not have 
a chance to listen to reason — reason is what you 
fear, just as my co-religionists fear that we might 
listen to others who belong to the world instead of 
preaching contentment in order to get to Heaven. 

Father Meekin. — Now I know why this 
change has come over Robert; now I understand 
who is responsible for it. You, sir. You, sir. 

Robert. — I have no obection to your correcting 
me, but I do not believe you are acting within the 
rights of even a priest to put the blame for some 
fancied wrong to one who has never in word or 
deed even intimated a desire to lead me from my 
church. 

Father Meekin. — You would naturally de- 
fend one who so fully expresses your sentiments. 

Robert. — I have not as yet expressed my belief 
in matters of religion. 

Nathan. — I have not attempted to touch upon 
the subject. 



The Rehearsal. 33 

Father Meekin. — However, I will, and both 
of you shall hear it. Oh, I know that it is useless 
for me to hope that you will see my point of view, 
but no matter, for as long as the world existed there 
were always men who doubted. You will advance 
an idea and some will doubt, but history does not 
record many achievements by those who tore down. 
It is the builder whose works have meaning to the 
world, the builder of faith, the builder of hope. 
No theory, no doctrine, no belief of any kind is 
beyond attack; if we look for weaknesses we can 
find them. You begin with the premise that some- 
thing is wrong and at once lose sight of all that is 
good ; thus too, when once engrossed with the faith 
you permit no thought that there may be some 
weakness in it. You begin to doubt and you feed 
upon doubt so long until all is wrong that has been 
and you give no quarter to the very faith that was 
yours. 

Nathan. — Call it doubt, call us destroyers, but 
you are wrong. It is not the lack of faith, not the 
lack of confidence in our fellowmen that prompts 
us to rebel against these conditions — conditions 
which conduce to injustice. Religion performed 
its mission but it no longer serves man, therefore 



34 The Rehearsal. 

it no longer serves God; when both Christianity 
and Judaism suffered it served, but now it is man 
who suffers. Oh, man, does he even resemble the 
being he was intended to be? Oh, you who are 
his protectors, do you ever strive to help; do you 
help your Christian society to live as they should? 
Oh, yes, I know just as our Jewish protectors that 
shut their eyes to the many of our faith who are in 
the sweat shops, but when the Jew in the sweat 
shop and the Christian in the mines and factory 
begin to unite into a common cause; when they no 
longer hate one another because of the difference of 
religion, then you cry stick to your own. We too 
say our own sect, we mean our own class, regardless 
of our fathers' faith. We are proclaiming to the 
world a new faith in all, of all, for all. We are the 
builders of the future. 

Father Meekin. — Phrases that sound well; 
you are both young. Youth carries with it a bold 
hope; this so-called love of mankind — wait until 
the grim years will teach you that preaching a 
theory is one thing and practicing a condition is 
another. Time will bring home to you many a 
lesson, some very painful. You expect religion to 
do all, to secure faith — justice, but how can it 



The Rehearsal. 35 

when religion must beg its adherents to remain 
steadfast, to cater to the man who should cater to 
it? Oh, friends, there is much you both must 
learn and the saddest of all, you will learn it, per- 
haps, when it is too late. Robert, I again say to 
you, return to your faith, to your father's faith, 
the church is ready to receive you and will reclaim 
your past and give you your future. Come, my 
dear boy, to mass on Sunday. Think it over, will 
you? 

Rob ert.— [Reluctantly . ] Yes — yes. 

Father Meekin. — I must go, they are await- 
ing me; Mr. Brodsky, I am very sorry. 

Nathan. — Father, I regret it too ; you did not 
understand my position. 

Father Meekin. — I understand better than 
perhaps you imagine; it is these plausible and 
effective words that usually carry us off into the 
world that is enchanted, but then — 

Nathan. — Then some realization of better 
things. 

Father Meekin. — No, no, they don't come. 

Nathan. — It's you who doubt. 

Father Meekin. — I doubt the visionary, but 
I have faith in God. Goodnight, we shall meet 
some day, Mr. Brodsky. 



36 The Rehearsal. 

Nathan. — Goodnight. {Stands affected; 

Robert accompanying Father Meekin to the door 
and returns.] 

Robert. — Nathan, you are a wonder. You 
certainly held your ground. You spoke to him 
so convincingly; it ended admirably. How they 
would like to separate us. He will now influence 
my father against you. 

Nathan. — I should consider that very unfor- 
tunate; I like the old gentleman very much. 

Robert. — Whether he does or does not, 
Nathan, you shall always claim my friendship. 

Nathan. — I will not accept it under these con- 
ditions; your place will be with your father. 

Robert. — {Somewhat disappointed.] Well, 
you are certainly queer; here you are fighting for 
the right to associate, and now suddenly you 
change. 

Nathan. — You don't understand me. I am 
and always will be of the opinion that the world 
suffers through this dissension, but if you must 
choose between my friendship and the loyalty to 
your father, Bob, remain loyal to him. I would 
do so if I were forced to choose. 

Robert. — Loyal to the unreasonable? 



The Rehearsal. 37 

Nathan. — Yes, that is our duty, right or 
wrong, loyalty above everything else. 

Robert. — [Stands in thought.] I don't intend 
to stand by loyally; in fact I mean to tear com- 
pletely away from it this very day. 

Nathan. — What do you mean? 

Robert. — Well, I mean that I shall declare my 
intention tonight to marry a woman who does not 
subscribe to my faith. 

Nathan. — You don't mean that you would 
marry anyone but a Catholic? 

Robert. — Yes. 

Nathan. — Listen; I am speaking to you as a 
friend. Don't marry outside of your faith. Bear 
in mind that the religion of your wife should be 
the religion of your father. 

Robert. — I love this woman; she is all in my 
life, and religion will not interfere with my inten- 
tion. 

Nathan. — There is of course very little dif- 
ference between Catholic and Protestant, yet the 
hatred sometimes is very bitter; don't — but of 
course, why should I advise you, the trouble is that 
we never listen to advice in such matters. Who is 
she? Why I never knew that you were in love. 



38 The Rehearsal. 

We saw so much of you, that we didn't think that 
you had any time for anyone else. Well, can I 
wish you luck? Who is she? 

Robert. — [Hesitates.] She is not a Protes- 
tant. 

Nathan. — No? Who is she? 

Robert. — She is a Jewess. 

Nathan. — [As though struck by a blow.] A 
Jewess, did you say? A Jewess — Robert — for 
God's sake — what did you say? A Jewess — no, 
no. [Very loud.~\ Robert, you don't mean — 
that it is — Esther ? 

Robert. — Yes, it's Esther. . 

Nathan. — Oh, my God. 

Robert. — Why surely you will not object to 
me? 

Nathan. — Not object to you? Tell me, does 
Esther know of this? 

Robert. — Well, I am confident that she loves 
me as I love her. 

Nathan. — I want to know whether Esther 
knows ; Oh, my God, can't you understand ? Did 
you ever speak to her about it? 

Robert. — No, I never mentioned it to her. 

Nathan. — [Relieved.] Oh, what a relief. 
[Sighs] That's better. 



The Rehearsal. 39 

Robert. — Yet I am confident that she will listen 
to me; she loves me, I know it. 

Nathan. — You might have misconstrued the 
signs of friendship for love. 

Robert. — No, I am quite certain. I shall ask 
her today. 

Nathan. — You mustn't. We might as well 
agree right now that this thing shall go no further. 
You are a Christian, Esther is a Jewess; such 
marriage is wrong. 

Robert. — Don't you think that she might have 
something to say about this? 

Nathan. — I am confident that Esther will re- 
fuse to listen. I know my sister. She is a Jewess 
before anything else. She is a Jewess before be- 
ing a daughter or sister, but you see I am reason- 
able and supposing it were possible that she might 
love as you love, then would there be more reasons 
why I should plead with you never to say anything 
to her on the subject, for if she never hears of it 
she will never feel the keenness of her disappoint- 
ment. You see I am now pleading for her, for 
her, Robert; do this for our old friendship's sake. 

Robert. — You are asking too much; you don't 
know how I love her; there is not a single moment 



40 The Rehearsal, 

in my life that my entire being is not concentrated 
on her. No, Nathan, no. Nothing in this world, 
surely if my father's objection, which I am sure I 
will encounter, does not keep me back, such reason- 
ing never will, never. 

Nathan. — My pleading won't? Well, then, 
my command will. I forbid you to see her. I 
will regard your approach to my sister as an insult 
and I will resent it. 

Robert. — You — you — well then, I will defy 
you. I don't need your consent. I will press my 
suit in spite of you; she alone is the judge. You 
forbid me! I tell you if Esther loves me, if 
Esther will only consent, I will have her whether 
you will it or not. 

Nathan. — She might want to know whether I 
consent; she will want to know, I was always a 
good brother to her. 

Robert. — So you — that's it, you're one of these 
braggarts, always preaching that we are all equal. 
Oh, how you would sigh and plead, there is no dif- 
ference between Jew and Gentile, oh, no, there is 
no difference, of course; when the hoodlums on 
the street scorn and laugh at you, you cry and 
exclaim, "What difference is there, aren't we all 



The Rehearsal. 41 

alike?" Then you feel its sting, but when your 
own theory is applied to yourself then you whim- 
per like a rat when caught. Oh, you braggart, 
words — words — nothing but words. 

Nathan. — Yes, words, let it be words, but I 
do not preach equality because I desire to sneak 
into the heart of some woman; it isn't the equality 
you meant; it was this love you claim for my 
sister. 

Robert. — Don't you dare to say this — you 
miserable — 

Nathan. — Why don't you say Jew? [/« the 
midst of these last words a knock at the door is 
heard; both men turn as though frightened; 
neither dares to speak.~\ 

Robert. — Come in. [The door opens, a 
pretty young woman of about 20 years of age, 
long dark hair, neatly dressed, stands in the door- 
way.] 

Esther. — I heard you two quarrel and I was 
so astounded, in fact frightened, that I came down. 
Why, what's the matter? What happened? [A 
long pause.] 

Nathan. — Come in, Esther, sit down here; 
this is something that concerns you. 



42 The Rehearsal, 

Esther. — [Reluctantly.'] Concerns me? 

Robert. — Yes, come in, please. 

Esther. — [Comes in, sits down on chair 
opposite the audience, the men stand facing each 
other on the other side.] Well, what is it? [She 
turns to Robert, who casts his eyes down, then to 
Nathan who looks at her steadily.] Well, why 
don't one of you say something? 

Nathan. — Esther, Mr. O'Donnell has just 
disclosed to me the fact that he loves you. I 
want you to tell him that he has no right to feel 
that you have ever given him a cause to hope ; tell 
him so in my presence. 

Esther. — [Puts her hands up to her face, looks 
at Robert and breaks down. Robert rushes up to 
her, kneels with one knee on the chair standing near 
her and catches her hands and covers them with 
kisses, and cries as he does. Esther touches his 
forehead with her lips.] 

Nathan. — [Upon perceiving this turns away 
and leans against the bookcase; to himself.] So 
it's true, they both love. Oh, God, what will 
become of us? 

Robert. — Esther, my darling, Oh, how I have 
waited for this moment. My love, my life. 



The Rehearsal. 43 

What care I for all the world's objections? I 
have you — you alone I want. Tell me just the 
one word, that you love me. 

Esther. — Yes, I love you; I too was waiting 
and waiting to hear — to hear these words, though 
I knew that we loved truly and honestly, Robert. 
Oh, how happy we might have been. 

Robert. — You are happy, aren't you? I am 
the happiest of men. 

Esther. — Happy? No, how can I be, how 
can you be, happy? What a price! What a ter- 
rible price you are asking! 

Robert. — Oh, I know, Nathan's objections dis- 
tress you. I will plead with him, I will do any- 
thing to win you, to make you happy. 

Esther. — Surely Nathan does not object, does 
he? 

Nathan. — Yes, I object. If I could I would 
forbid. This is painful to me. I am the most 
miserable of beings. So our Esther, our pride, our 
life's one hope, that's how all our plans will end; 
and how about him, who is up there now at this 
very moment, devouring the past memories of his 
hopes, the sacrifices he has made, so that his child- 
ren remain steadfast to their own? 



44 The Rehearsal. 

Esther. — [Sits dozen, covers her face and 
cries.'] Oh, my poor father — but he will forgive. 

Nathan. — How little you know him. 

Robert. — Surely you shouldn't care. Look at 
me. Will I not encounter the wrath of my 
people, and if I don't shrink from it, why should 
you? 

Nathan. — Oh, that's it. If you don't shrink, 
why should she? Yes, why should she? Her 
father's love — his suffering — would of course be 
only the suffering of a Jew; what's that [bitterly] 
if you, you, a Christian, the Christian to whom the 
world belongs, who can say to us, we will tolerate 
you, we will let you alone; why [laughs scornfully'] 
if he, the Christian, the lord, condescends to come 
down from his exalted position to marry one of 
ours, why should you, you the Jewess, not glory in 
the distinction? 

Robert. — Don't say this; you know I never 
thought myself your superior. Be fair. Man to 
man, I recognize many qualities in you I do not 
possess, but as — 

Nathan. — But as a people, of course it be- 
comes quite different. 

Robert. — [Impatiently.] Don't put words 



The Rehearsal. 45 

into my mouth. Fight me, if fight you must, but 
be fair. You know I am only citing a world's 
opinion — an opinion I myself do not subscribe to. 
I am not boasting when I say that because I am 
holding these advantages I am still willing to give 
up all — all merely to win her — to have her — her 
love. I am trying to attain my happiness. My 
soul cries for her. 

Esther. — Oh, Robert, Robert, what a cruel 
condition. 

Nathan. — That's just it. That is what I 
want you to know. Can't you see you are uncon- 
sciously voicing a sentiment, and because it is un- 
conscious it proves conclusively how deep rooted 
is this antagonism, so deep that it has become a 
habit, and that it means that you will have to live 
that habit? Listen, Esther, do you remember how 
often we have been huddled together and be- 
moaned the fate of our people; recall the savage 
cruelty that has been directed against us in the 
world we left behind? Here too, where we are 
all free, are we not made to feel the sting, yes, the 
sting, my poor sister ; you too will feel how cruelly 
you will suffer when you hear that your people are 
regarded only as Jews. Even in places where we 



46 The Rehearsal. 

find men and women fighting for universal peace 
and unity, even there when a question arises be- 
tween theirs and ours, he who belongs to us is pro- 
nounced only a Jew. Go to the prize fight, where 
the encounter is between a Jewish and Gentile 
brute, and the crowd cries of him who belongs to 
us, " Kill him, kill him, he is only a Jew." Go to 
the fashionable clubs or hotels where the social in- 
feriors are excluded, and he who belongs to us is 
excluded because he is only a Jew. Go to your 
colleges of learning and you will hear it said of the 
student, the doctor, the professor, the scientist, 
who belongs to us, that it is too bad that, having 
such great ability, he is only a Jew. Go to the 
army, where ours have bled and fought for their 
country, and he who belongs to us cannot receive 
the highest promotion because he is only a Jew. 
Yes, yes — only a Jew. Are we not constantly 
judged as a whole, in all that is good or bad — all 
because society in which and with which we work 
will insist that we are only Jews? . . . Robert, I 
beg of you to help me, help me to convince you both 
that it is madness, not love, that is leading you both 
to certain ruin. 

Esther. — You wrong me when you think I am 



The Rehearsal. 47 

no longer a true or loyal Jewess. I am, but my 
loyalty does not blind me to our own weakness. 
If you raise the question I will undertake to de- 
fend the Christian world against your attack. I 
say that as long as bigotry was the instrument of 
cruelty against us we had a great grievance, but 
since that no longer is effective, what is it that 
keeps us in subjugation? It is our anxiety for 
martyrdom. 

Nathan. — Martyrdom ? 

Esther. — Yes, martyrdom; we welcome this 
persecution and we get what we want. Of course 
we believe that all are equal and we ask why aren't 
we so treated? I will tell you; because we offer 
ourselves to the world as men and want the world 
to repay us as Jews. 

Nathan. — Esther, what are you saying? As 
Jews? No, no; we want nothing but what we 
are willing to give; what right have they to ex- 
pect from us, that we be thankful to them because 
they permit us to do this, to go there ; who are they 
to say that the world belongs to them? 

Esther. — If they say it, it is because we our- 
selves have assured them of it. Is it not true 
that when a Christian praises a Jew, we all ap- 



48 The Rehearsal. 

plaud, when a Christian only does us justice that 
we idolize him as a reward? If a Jew succeeds in 
attaining a position of eminence, don't we all go 
into ecstacies? 

Nathan. — Which proves how little is given us. 

Esther. — [Very angry.~\ Given us — yes, 
given us. Don't you see that it is because we 
expect that — that which belongs to us should be 
given to us; because we always beg — crawl, that 
they condescend to give, why don't we take? If 
we cannot take why don't we defy ? Why are we 
not strong enough to overstep the boundary to 
which they assign us ; why will we always support 
the claim that after all we are only Jews? 

Robert. — Esther dear, I would willingly give 
up my life to bring your hopes into realization; 
such spirit can only be displayed by a woman with 
a soul. 

Nathan. — It is the spirit of Judaism that 
speaks in you. Your defense is directed against 
your people's oppressors, and you do not know it. 
I know that defense does not constitute desertion, 
it does not mean subordination, it does not mean 
that you are capable of deserting the weak to go 
over to the strong. 



The Rehearsal. 49 

Robert. — I am not asking this of Esther. We 
shall live our own life. 

Nathan. — Oh, yes, how many have tried to 
live their own, only to learn that they did not, they 
could not. Our lives are merely the reflection of 
the lives of others. When we attempt to separate 
ourselves, then only do we awaken to it that we 
belong somewhere else, then only do we feel how 
alone we are, how in need we stand of those 
whose existence we portray. 

Esther. — Even lonesomeness is better than 
anguish, better than — Oh, God, must I thus 
suffer? 

Robert. — No, Esther, you shall not. I will 
make you happy. We w i 1 1 be happy. 

Nathan. — You cannot give her happiness; all 
else, but not happiness, for you take from her her 
peace of mind, which you cannot replace. 

Robert. — To think that you, Nathan, of all 
men, object — object now in this enlightened age; 
here we are, three people, who are striving every 
day of our lives to promote the advanced thought, 
fighting for the millennium, striving for the dawn 
of a rational condition, when all men, regardless 
of race, color, and religion, can meet on one com- 



50 The Rehearsal. 

mon ground; to think that you can stand here and 
let such objections as a mere religious mode of 
worship to the same God, interfere with the hap- 
piness of two human souls. 

Esther. — Listen, Nathan, how he pleads for 
his happiness — for our happiness. 

Robert. — I feel, if for no other reason then, 
that we must break away from these chains of anti- 
quated usages — Jew and Gentile shall marry — 
marry if it need be, in defiance of the whole world. 

Nathan. — So now it's a matter of living for 
an idea — an idea — that's the worst of all, that's 
the wrong of it; when we want to gratify ourselves 
then we look for some justification, a sort of sub- 
terfuge. I cannot understand why men who pre- 
tend to live their theory, never as a mere experience 
marry from other faiths, races, or colors, merely 
to prove the correctness. Why aren't you honest 
and admit that it's your love and love only that 
prompts you to defy a world's tradition ? I know 
better; no man marries to prove a contention, he 
creates the contention to justify his personal de- 
sires, and you know it. 

Robert. — Well, then, let it be so. Have not 
a man and woman a right to seek to satisfy the 



The Rehearsal. 51 

craving of an honest devotion, a pure love? You 
know I love your sister, she loves me ; has not this 
love a claim above everything else? Must not 
even you bow to it? 

Nathan. — Esther dear, do you too believe that 
love has all this claim? 

Robert. — [Becomes very anxious. ,] Tell him, 
Esther, tell him how deeply you are loved, how 
you too love. 

Nathan. — I need not be told how you love. I 
want to know whether my sister believes as you 
do, that love has a claim over the claim of parents, 
over the claim of a religion, of a people; that's 
what I want to know. 

Esther. — Yes, I believe it has — all the dreams 
of a woman are of him, the man upon whose 
strong arm she can lean through life; when one 
loves truly, we cannot question who he is, what he 
is, whence he came; love is all, we live it, by day, 
by night ; it has all claim — claim above everything. 

Nathan. — [Very much dejected.'] Love has 
a claim above everything, but you don't know 
what true love is; true love does not dream any- 
thing, true love only gives everything. The love 
which you both worship is that which asks every- 



52 The Rehearsal. 

thing and is willing to give nothing. How 
must Eros weep when he perceives the victories 
that are being ottered in his name. So this is 
what you call love? Here is a man, who, to 
gain the affections of a woman, will drag down 
with him the life, the hope, the happiness of a 
father and a sister; he will make them curse the 
hour in which he was born; he will, with it, tear 
out the hearts from the bosoms of those who were 
devoted to her whom he promised to protect and 
shield through life; he will rob her of her child- 
hood, for she will no longer dare to look to her 
past, to the days when she hid her little head in 
the bosom of her elders; no more will she recall 
the moments when happiness was real, when she 
laughed joyfully. Oh, this childhood, its beauty, 
lost forever. She too, in order to enjoy this 
momentary illusion, love, would have him for- 
get the days when as an altar boy he was im- 
bued with the spirit that the future held out the 
assurance that he was a pan of those who reared 
him: she asks him to turn his back upon all that 
is sacred in his life; all this we demand in the name 
of this love. I wonder whether even this sort of 
love does not sometimes plead with its possessors 



The Rehearsal. 53 

to help it to thrive, but no, no, we human weak- 
lings believe that it owes us all; that, in spite of 
the hardship we impose upon it, we demand from 
it that it nourish our souls so that we can be happy 
— a happiness that never is. 

Robert. — Oh, this reasoning. Reasoning by 
one who never loved. 

Nathan. — By one whose very life is love. 

Robert. — Yes it is only naked reason. Love 
may be selfish, but it's not intended to gratify 
others, only those whose it is, and therefore you 
must not ask us to reason at such time. We 
cannot reason. 

Nathan. — You mean you will not because you 
now feel confident that your marriage is all that 
is required, that it will afford you sufficient com- 
pensation should all else turn against you, but how 
surely you will be disappointed. 

Robert. — There are adversaries among those 
of the same faith. 

Nathan. — When once the attractions of youth 
the sentimentalities of it are worn off, and love 
stands there, stripped of its dreams, the reality of 
life begins ; when it does, then and then only does 
your past loom up. What constitutes your past? 



54 The Rehearsal, 

The people with whom you were reared, your 
father, your sister, and brother, and when you 
crave for their association and it is denied you, 
you will weep, she will weep, Oh, what bitter tears 
amidst loneliness. Will you at such times have 
the power to restrain the thought that you would 
have been happier had you both married your 
own? 

Esther. — Our own? They cease to be when 
they disown us. 

Nathan. — Already you begin to be defiant. 
Esther, Esther. 

Esther. — Defiant? Yes, I am defiant. You 
were both reasoning, arguing, as though either 
could convince the heart that is crushed because of 
an iniquity of condition, which was not of our 
own making. 

Nathan. — It will be of your own making. 

Robert. — Nathan, see what a price you are ask- 
ing. For God's sake, have mercy. 

Esther. — Robert, do not beg; I am tired of 
begging. It is because my race, my people, have 
always been begging that we, its descendants, now 
pay this price. 

Robert. — What care I for your philosophy? 



The Rehearsal. 55 

We cannot live apart; we want each other's com- 
panionship; we love, that's all. 

Nathan. — Yes, that's all. 

Robert. — Esther, you tell us, you will choose; 
you must choose between your brother and your 
lover — come with me. 

Esther. — [Sits immovable. Merriment, laugh- 
ter, joy and singing is heard next door. She does 
not answer."] 

Nathan. — Esther, do not choose between your 
brother and your lover; choose between the course 
which will bring you the consolation in the hours 
of your greatest despair, that you have not brought 
misery to his people and yours ; do not choose the 
life which in your happiest hours of wifehood and 
motherhood will not permit you to recall those 
with whom you were reared. To him who should 
advise you, you will not dare to speak of them; 
neither will he, if he respects you, ever dare to 
refer to that which will always be dear to him. 
You will be silent and for what? All for that 
which you now term love. Love is not selfish, it 
must be strong enough to enable you to sacrifice. 
[Esther begins to weep, Robert turns aside to hide 
his emotion.] Yes, choose — choose, for choosing 



56 The Rehearsal. 

wrongly it will be impossible to retract; you must 
live the misery of such choice. 

Robert. — For God's sake, man, don't picture 
it so terribly. Surely man is not put on this earth 
to suffer thus. Shall we always be divided, always? 
Always ? 

Nathan. — Some day there will be an adjust- 
ment of all things. Man will join hands with 
man, and universal peace will be declared, one 
people with one religion. 

Robert. — Until then you ask us to suffer. 

Nathan. — Until then we must seek happiness 
where we have a claim upon happiness. 

Robert. — I plead with you, Nathan, don't, 
don't reason with us. Esther, please, for our 
love's sake, for all that is worth while in life, tell 
him too that all this can make no difference. 

Esther. — No, it cannot and will not make any 
difference. You stand there and argue, as though 
you can hope to convince my heart which loves so 
dearly that every fibre of my existence only awaits 
the moment when I can be his. Oh, Robert, take 
me away from here. I love you — I care for 
naught but you — you my dear Robert. Suffer? 
Well, then I will suffer; a woman knows how to, 



The Rehearsal. 57 

and yet a single moment of happiness is worth a 
hundred years of suffering. 

Nathan. — Esther, for God's sake — in the 
name of all that is sacred — don't go. 

Esther. — I will go. My life is mine; you 
hear? It's mine. 

Nathan. — Thine? Then let it be; it is no 
longer anything to me and to them who gave it to 
you ; you will take their curse ; it's all they can leave 
you as a heritage. 

Robert. — Don't, man, have you no heart? 

Nathan. — I>on't fret; your God will protect 
her; it's only the voice of my desperation, and until 
she is fully yours, I have the brother's privilege 
to damn her; after this she will be a stranger, as 
we were strangers to you ere this. 

Esther. — Robert, you will always love me, 
won't you, Robert dear? 

Robert. — Yes, until death I will protect you, 
don't fear. Oh, hide your head here — here on my 
heart. 

Nathan. — From this on you are dead to your 
people, your father and brother. [He rips his 
clothing as a sign of the death of one who is near; 
at the tearing Esther shudders, but clings to 
Robert more tightly. ,] 



58 The Rehearsal. 

Robert. — Esther, don't go on like this; here is 
Robert, who will protect you, live and die for you ; 
you will yet be happy. 

Esther. — Yes, happy. I am happy. [At this 
juncture Bill Dennett begins the singing of a funny 
song, imitating Jews; first the singing is faint, it 
becomes louder and louder; as the singing proceeds, 
Esther slowly disengages herself from Robert's 
embrace. Nathan begins to laugh bitterly. There 
is loud laughing, cheering and handclapping 
heard. .] 

Nathan. — It is they to whom you belong. 

Robert. — Don't mind them, it is their ignor- 
ance. 

Nathan. — No, it's their amusement. We 
have been the object of their laughter and scorn so 
long that now after thousands of years we have 
become callous to it; oh, yes. Why don't you too 
laugh? It's your people. Oh, I forgot, not 
yours, you will have your own; your life is yours. 
[Esther falls up against the table, her hands be- 
hind her back, she leans on it and goes through 
every motion as though thumbscrews had been ap- 
plied to her; she cries out.~\ 

Esther. — Oh, how they laugh at them. 



The Rehearsal. 59 

Robert. — No, Esther, don't mind that; it is 
nothing unusual to see people of your own race 
imitate and laugh at the lower class of Jews. 

Esther. — Lower class of Jews? Oh, merciful 
God — my father too is regarded as one of the 
lower class — who knows? 

Robert. — I don't mean him. 

Esther. — No, you don't mean my father, but 
you mean the father of some other poor wretched 
child like me. 

Rob ert. — No — no — no — 

Nathan. — [Watches Esther intensely.'] 

Esther. — Oh, listen, father, how they are 
laughing at you; you too, my dear mother; oh, 
how they are laughing at us. [By this time 
another stanza of the song was sung and the same 
merriment begins.] 

Robert. — [Rushes up to the window, opens it 
and cries out] Stop — stop. [His voice is drowned 
in the uproar. He shuts the window quickly, but 
the noise only subsides and continues.] 

Esther. — Merciful God, how long will you 
permit them to scorn us? Has civilization not 
taught them to know that we can feel — feel the 
scorn ? 



60 The Rehearsal. 

Nathan. — It has not ; it will not as long as wc 
too laugh at ourselves. {A long pause.] 

Esther. — [Reaches out her hands to Nathan.] 
Nathan, my dear brother, take me back — take me 
to him of whom they laugh, he is ours. [Nathan 
turns his hack to her.] 

Robert. — Esther, you shall not. Never will I 
let you go. You belong to me. 

Esther. — {Puts up her hand.] No, I never 
knew how little I belonged to anybody but to them 
than I do now. There is no danger. Your 
people know how to remind us that after all we 
belong to our own. {She slowly moves towards 
Nathan; she hangs on his shoulder.] 

Robert. — {Wants to follow her hut she 
stretches out her arms as though to prevent him.] 

Robert. — Come, Esther, be calm. 

Esther. — I am calm. I know what it is to be 
a Jewess, and it is better to know now than when 
it is too late. {The noise subsides; all is quiet. 
Robert eagerly follows Esther } steadily looks at her 
but she is firm. Nathan at last turns to her, em- 
braces her and she lays her head on his shoulder, 
they both quietly retreat; as they come to the door 
they involuntarily stop, but do not turn; they open 
the door and disappear.] 



The Rehearsal. 61 

Robert. — [Rushes after them with a terrific 
cry.~\ Esther — Esther; gone — gone! [He falls 
up against the door post, when suddenly the 
" Rosary " is heard next door } he is much affected 
by its singing. When it stops, applause is heard; 
he then opens the window, stands there.] 

Marie. — [From outside.] Hully gee, Bob, but 
you look like a ghost; what's ailing ye? Did ye 
hear me sing ? What do ye think of it ? 

Robert. — Hey? 

Marie. — What's ye think of my singing? 

Robert. — Yes — yes; fine — fine. 

Marie. — Father Meekin, here is Bob at the 
window listening to my singing. 

Father Meekin. — [From outside.] Oh, yes; 
well, Robert, how are you now ? Has your friend 
left you ? 

Robert. — Yes. 

Father Meekin. — Has he converted you yet 
to your new belief? 

Robert. — [Angrily laughs.] Oh, yes, he has. 

Father Meekin. — Tell me, what is it? 

Robert. — He has converted me, he showed me 
the error of my ways ; he told me that I belonged 
to you, to you only. 



& 2 The Rehearsal. 

Father Meekin.— Good, very good. Then 
you will be at Mass on Sunday? 

Robert.— Yes, Father, I will be there— there 
to pray to God— that He may help me. [He 
breaks down and weeps. ,] 

Curtain. 



SEP 22 I9H 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
0C1 23 ^ M 



